


Know Thine Enemy

by netweight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, POV Second Person, Sex Magic, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-11
Updated: 2005-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netweight/pseuds/netweight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not about love. It's about winning.</p><p>(Written pre-"Half-Blood Prince", and thus taking into account canon only up until book 5, "Order of the Phoenix".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know Thine Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> There is a bit of an experiment going on in this fic. Throughout it, there are hidden titles for its different sections, following the symbol * , which can be highlighted to be read. Or not, as the fic is designed to work without them. But they're there to provide an additional layer of meaning, if you're curious. My advice is forgo them on a first read, but it's really up to you, the reader.
> 
> Acknowledgments at the end.

* Mind Over Matter

  
Your skin thrums with energy, jolt of magic electric washing through like a tide and awakening all your senses. You touch him again to make sure that's what caused it and the sensation is so intense you almost shake.

His eyes widen absurdly and you know he felt it too.

Your hand closes quickly round his wrist when he tries to jerk away, instinct and reflexes making you that fraction faster and he hisses, hating you for that too. The feeling is mutual. Your grip turns deliberately vicious and suddenly everything makes sense.

You'd laugh if you didn't know better.

 

You negotiate the stages of intimacy through violence and desire. He kissed you first that first time but it was more a bite than anything else. Maybe he meant to disgust you but you think not. His lips curled in a leer when you kissed back.

No way back after.

You take cruel pleasure in his bruised mouth and the stubble burn spreading across too fair skin, telltale signs he eliminates methodically after each encounter. He repays in kind in scratches deep enough to draw blood scattered through your body. You keep those.

It's not about love. It's about winning.

 

You wonder if this was meant to be in the way of destinies and prophecies and the things that were never meant to be in the first place, a part of the accursed gift of death handed to you as a child.

Probably, you decide, but it doesn't really matter.

Random meetings in empty disused classrooms and in the dark corners of the dungeons become ever more frequent, the thrill of power turning exponential in the rites of the flesh too tempting to be denied, a spell that keeps you firmly anchored in reality.

You never forget he's your enemy.

 

He's a means to an end. An inbred vessel of power to be harnessed and you've got to love the irony. You don't think about saving him. You're too busy making sure you survive long enough to save everyone else.

You don't bother examining the amorality of your own behaviour.

In public he focuses his malice on you, confrontations bordering on brutal. Fists and teeth and dirty moves and dirtier words mark the private trysts that follow such fights too, both of you a livewire of lust, frantic and feverish and impossibly turned-on.

You don't want him to be good.

 

* Blood Sugar Sex Magic

  
His head collides with the stone wall you shoved him against. He grimaces in pain and his eyes scream bloody murder as he reaches for the spot. His fingers come away red. He gapes for a moment, surprised and furious. Then he smirks. Gaze locked on yours, he licks them clean.

Bastard's daring you. You lunge for him. Wind one hand through white hair and yank his head back to chase the blood into his mouth, the other digging into his hip with bone-crushing pressure. He shifts, grinds against you, insistent, demanding, breath hot, voice cold.

"Give it to me."

Words trickling down your spine like an incantation, power spreading through nerves and muscles, flowing, rushing, swelling, bursting out of your body to shatter and possess, screams and essence mingling, the magic untamed and overwhelming, obliterating conscience and scruples and right and wrong, out-of-body experience, spirit skipping free of the confines of human condition and it's like dying and it's like _living._

You come down slowly, fire burning along your veins. Thought swift and senses sharp, doubled, his core echoing within you, stronger each time. You bet this isn't what they had in mind when they said 'know thine enemy'.

 

* True Colours

  
This might mean the difference between life and death, you're aware of it.

You're aware of many things these days, the world drawn in stark relief and new overlapping perspectives. You'd expect vibrant, vivid colours too but the looming future paints everything monochromatic, you included. You don't recognize the face in the mirror.

You can change that though. All you have to do is walk up to him.

He should fit into this black and white world, ice-coloured as he is, diamond-cut and just as cold. But his pale skin is still unmarred, unmarked, you made sure, and the only colour that taints it is the blush rising in his cheeks and his eyes are grey but for you they turn silver, metallic and sparkling, unmerciful, challenging, and the reflection in them is true and it is _yours_.

He's the mirror that you seek.

 

He's the perfect match but it is not a game for what's at stake is your life.

You don't trust him. You don't even like him.

It's a relief. There's no need for pretence, no need for shame and no need for control. There's just need. You let your temper take the better of you and you'd beat your anger and your pain into him, were it not for the fact he's not one for submission.

He likes to taunt you though. See how far he can push you before you snap, before you find your hands clenched round his throat and his eyes shining with mirth even as he struggles for breath. Not so golden now, his eyes say.

You suspect he takes a sick satisfaction in manipulating your emotions.

His motivations are anything but transparent.

 

* The Midnight Hour

  
In one such occasion, caution gone the way of better judgement, Snape walks in on you.

For a moment he seems too appalled to say anything but recovers quickly, lips curling back in distaste, words through gritted teeth, "what _the hell_ do you think you're doing?"

You think he's addressing you but you don't answer immediately, your mind calculating possible consequences in a strangely detached manner. Far off you hear a clock striking midnight. Beside you a cool collected voice.

" _I_ know exactly what I'm doing. The same cannot be said of all of us."

His contempt is evident, lips twisted in an arrogant, cocky sneer. You realize abruptly you've seen that expression before and it's like a blow to the chest because it is Sirius' own, family resemblance surreal in the carbon copy of his father that is his face.

The air is so thick it could be cut with a knife, weighed down by the veiled threat, old hates and new disdain, roles swerving dangerously, master and pupil no more.

"This is private," you intervene, resolved to bring an end to the impasse. Snape's gaze breaks from the deadlock to stare at you and…

… the world sways.

The disorientation lasts but an instant, the time it takes you to grasp what is happening, to recognize the feeling of something _someone_ trying to prod into your mind, rape you of your thoughts and feelings and the hate flares white hot inside you, immense and blinding and you lash out and…

_… the Dark Mark is being seared into your arm and the pain is excruciating but the rush of power is bliss…_

… and the shock throws you back into the reality of the here and the now but you're tethering on the brink because it would be so easy, so _easy_ to just continue and scalpel the layers, slice through, rip, destroy cell membranes and rupture vessels and and and.

It takes a monumental amount of willpower to stop.

When you speak again, there's a borrowed cadence in the chilled tones of your voice.

"Like I said. Private. None of your concern. Or anyone else's, for that matter."

You can see him swaying on his feet but he draws himself to his full height at that, eyes narrowing to mere slits.

"If you believe that, you're a bigger fool than I thought."

He leaves in a swirl of black.

 

* Transfiguration

  
"Well, that should teach him."

Inside you an insidious little voice agrees and you want to think it an echo of his twisted psyche tapping into you, parasite crawling from within, mind-rape inverted, except you know the perverse satisfaction is all yours and the loathing too and the need to just give some of it back, he had it coming, years on a cupboard and abuse and humiliation and your mother screaming and who the fuck is Snape to pass judgement on _that_? Collateral damage and sometimes the ends justify the means and you almost just killed a man and you've been fucking _Malfoy_ and you eye him like you would an insect, strange mixture of fascination and revulsion and you. feel. sick.

And as if reading your thoughts he's suddenly there in your face,

"Don't like what you see?"

Your control finally breaks and you hit him, hard, send him careening to the floor.

You think maybe you knocked him out. But then he sits up and starts to laugh.

"Don't like what you've done? What you've become? Consorting with the enemy?"

He touches his mouth – you've split his lip, there's blood there. Human. He rubs it between thumb and forefinger and then looks at you, eyes mocking.

"War's a filthy business."

You turn to go. As you stride out you hear him loud, sardonic as ever.

"You'll be back." And then quieter. "I have you now."

 

You corner him first thing the next morning.

Spent the night awake lying in your bed, your mind replaying the events over and over and over again, horrified at the thought that you're not horrified enough, at the certainty that your rationalizations still hold, that there's no other way, but that you've been going about this all wrong, can't pretend you're not doing what you're doing, can't keep lying and fancy yourself not involved because look at where that got you? Now you're hopelessly entangled and how could you have forgotten what he's done, what he _is_ and damn it, why should you have all the answers, you're a doer, not a planner and you've miscalculated.

You weren't counting on _him_.

He glares daggers at you. Hates being trapped, you know. You know all sorts of things about him now that you think about it. Just not enough.

"We need to talk."

"Can't imagine what about."

"Snape."

"Didn't know you cared. Given last night's display. Touching."

You've got neither the time nor the patience for petty bickering so you seize hold of his arm, familiar language of struggle for dominance that seems to be the only one he understands and pays attention to. God, he pisses you off.

Other students passing through on their way to breakfast slow down, stare. He glowers at them and you can't help but being impressed at the effectiveness of it, at the way people cower and turn their heads.

Doesn't work on you though so he opts for another tactic.

"This is hardly the place for a heart to heart."

"On the pitch, after classes are over."

"Fine."

 

* Snake in the Grass

  
He's already there when you arrive. You're not surprised. Know how his mind works by now, taking his advantages where he can. More like a levelling of the odds, you think ruthlessly. He hates this place. He's never beaten you here.

He's alone. Not that you expected him not to be. But he usually is these days. Like he's wholly self-sufficient or wholly self-contained, you're not sure. You're not one much for company either lately. Ron and Hermione's reactions waver between exasperation and concern. Sometimes you see fear in their eyes.

You quickly divert from that train of thought.

  
You come to a halt in front of him. And you don't know what to say. You rarely talk other than to exchange insults. And having to ask him for anything makes you cringe.

Between you everything remains the same. Deep down, where it counts. And still ― you want….

You suppress that shiver that's half disgust, half thrall, the spell-binding effect of his proximity. He notices. Smiles that sly pleased smile of his, the one that always makes you want to wipe it off his face.

That brings you back into focus. Damn him and his magic sex voodoo.

  
You're sorely tempted to mess with his memory. Erase it all, pretend it never happened. Of course that would mean giving up on the best chance of victory yet. Maybe the only, intuition tells you.

He's the key.

You don't know how it works but it's more than just coincidence or luck. Tried researching in the library but you found only vague references to old sorcery, secret and forgotten and banned. Doesn't take much effort to imagine where he learned it. Why he learned it.

You're playing a dangerous game here.

You don't know what he wants, why he's doing this.

  
Why he turned to you.

  
And you really should think about that, about the whys and the hows but your head hurts from too much thinking and too little sleep and the cold bites into you and you’d rather be anywhere but here but someone's life is on the line.

You've got the feeling one way or the other you'll get your answers. Now is the time.

You cut to the chase.

  
"Look, I don't know how you found out. Though knowing you ―"

"You think you do, do you?" he interrupts, condescending and serious all at once.

All your defences snap up and you eye him suspiciously. He gives nothing away but you both know he's been faster. For once.

When you speak your voice is cold. You wonder when was it that it got that way. Feels like a long, long time ago.

"Why are you doing this?"

His eyes brighten.

"I thought the benefits of our mutual arrangement were obvious."

"They aren't. Enlighten me."

You can see him thinking of ways to avoid a direct answer, snide remark on the tip of his tongue, attack as the best defence. Goes both ways.

"Can't imagine Daddy dear approving of your conduct."

"Maybe he does. Maybe we've planned this from the start."

Liar, you almost call him. You'd bet anything he's doing this on his own. Just like you are. But you watch him watching you, awaiting your reaction, body still, tense. And there's something there, a scrape of truth. You latch onto it, gut instinct, unrelenting.

"Planned what exactly? Going to tell me you switched sides?"

He snorts his derision. "Hardly. What do I care for a bunch of do-gooders?"

"Going to rat on Snape then?"

"What for? Though his idiocy certainly warrants it."

"What he's doing is important." Clipped words at having to defend him.

"What? Licking Dumbledore's arse?"

"Don't you dare," you hiss, so low and sharp you're not even sure the words coming out of your mouth are English.

But he understands you perfectly. He understands too much.

"You think he's a saint? You think he knows everything and he's going to save us all? Going to tell me you think he won't sacrifice Snape? He'll sacrifice _you_ , if that's what it takes."

And you know this, you’ve accepted it ―

"You trust him? Spare me. Why you with me then? Or did you ask his permission to shag me too?"

He leers.

"Bet he'd give it to you."

It takes you a moment to catch his meaning. And then fury shudders through you.

Dumbledore knows. Of course, of course he does, you're conjuring enough power to rattle the castle walls and that can only mean he thinks this might be a solution and hasn't bothered to tell you yet _again_ and you're so fucking sick of everyone thinking you can't take it, 'it's for your own good, Harry', and the road to hell is paved with the best intentions, isn't that what they say? And they play you as a pawn and take you for granted and manipulate you and you can see he's doing it too, has been from the start and…

"That still doesn't explain why you're doing this."

  
You stand your ground and the anger dissipates. You already knew there would be a price to pay. At least this way, the decision is yours.

And you have to hope Dumbledore is relying on that. Relying on you to pull through at the end. You have to hope and you do, but even if that's not the case… it doesn't change anything.

  
He seems disturbed by your calm. At a loss by the fact you've foiled his plan. Or maybe you're reading him wrong, the long sideways glance that prefaces the plain answer that sounds like a confession of sorts.

"I'm not cut out to serve any master."

You consider this. You understand what the admission entails, the tacit recognition that Voldemort's victory would mean ruin for all. You wonder what happened that made him realize it, knowing, by the look in his eyes, that's one question that won't be answered.

You never expected his reasons to be pure, to be anything but selfish. But there are things he's leaving unsaid. And you can't risk treachery.

"I'll need proof. That you won't sell us out."

He seethes.

"Fuck you then, Potter. I have no allegiance save to myself."

 

* Palimpsest

  
One night at the end of May he accosts you out of nowhere, face set, furious and before you know it you're in his house.

'The fuck is this, kidnapping?' you want to shout but you're not afraid which should be odd but you're a little groggy from the trip, never could get used to walk through fire, and you forget to think about it because you have to pause and take a moment to appreciate your surroundings.

You've never seen anything like it. Never imagined that there were people who actually live like this.

This is his house. And you realize how very much he really is a child of privilege, at home in the backdrop of marble floors and gilded furniture, glass cases displaying a wealth of delicate objects, porcelain and silver and crystal, footsteps echoing in the high-vaulted ceilings arousing the faint murmuring of dozens of portraits, painted generations standing in for an absentee father.

You think that's the purpose of this little journey, an exhibition of his legacy and how very like him that is but he doesn't acknowledge any of it and instead pulls you close, hands impatient, tugging at your clothes, "come on, come on", mouth hungry and tasting of sweet rich things, no hesitation, no tears, no pity, no ashes like two years ago, offering oblivion from that first kiss of grief and so much more, freedom from moral constraints and the certainty of victory, revenge so close you can almost touch it, fingers skimming down and igniting flesh and power, wrapping around you and the magic explodes in your chest and you ignore your misgivings, push them and him down and you fuck him right there in the living-room floor, atop a Persian rug facing the flames.

When he comes, his head rolls back leaving his throat bared, exposed. He looks stupidly vulnerable.

The portraits are quiet and mute in their frames.

As with everything he does, this too is laden with double meaning.

He's showing you all.

 

* A Serpent's Kiss

  
It's the last day of the last year of school.

Outside the day is ending.

You stand by the window and watch the sun set, golden light splaying across green fields and reflecting off the lake's surface. The colours deepen slowly in the sky, the days lengthening with the beginning of summer, no clouds on the horizon.

Everything looks so peaceful. You want to commit it to memory while it's still whole and untouched.

It's the only place you can call home.

Soon you'll be leaving. Outside there's a war going on. Soon you'll be fighting it. You're seventeen and there’s the very definite possibility you'll die in a few months time. The Boy Who Lived. Feels like a sick joke, if you think about it that way.

Even if there are things worth fighting, worth dying for.

People are dying _now_. A slow but steady depletion of your numbers. Each number a name. Scattered skirmishes escalated to organized assaults and you're in desperate need of resources. You didn't even expect to end classes this year.

  
At some point, you become aware of his presence. Standing there. Looking at you.

He leans casually against the door frame, a tall lean sliver of a man. Already a man, all of you are. Not a mask that, not like the façade of indifference he wears now and that denounces his nervousness.

You've been avoiding him for the last couple of weeks, the wire of his glare cutting ever deeper as you ignored barbs and temptation. You needed your head clear.

The potential hums beneath your skin begging for release. For completion. You want to touch him so badly it's almost like an ache.

"The offer still stands."

Without the vicious smile he's quite beautiful, you notice. Razor-sharp features and too pale skin and he shouldn't be but he is. And it's a strange realization because it never mattered before, never had any personal relevance, but suddenly there it is and it does matter and it is another thing he has on you, another thing he has _for_ you and it's very, very personal.

There won't be much beauty in the times ahead.

And it's an egotistical thing to think and selfless at the same time. To want to keep it.

You look at him sharply, trying to see only what's there, trying to separate what's important from what's not.

"I may still defeat him without you."

"You might", he agrees. "And you may lose."

The possibility is unthinkable.

You can't. You won't. You have to win. You _have_ to.

You don't care what it costs.

And just like that, you accept it.

"Alright then."

  
There. You've said it and it's settled.

  
And it lacks… closure. He doesn't move. Doesn't say anything and there's a feeling of uneasiness coiling in your stomach. You're not sure what you were expecting but this wasn't it.

This is the right thing to do. Because you can't risk defeat and desperate times call for desperate measures. And it's not like you're selling your soul to the devil. This is only a convenient arrangement. Temporary. Just until you do what you have to do. And then you can carry on with your lives, everything back to normal. Not even ever see each other again.

Though that seems like a waste. With this sort of power there's so much you could do, so much ―

A shiver runs through you.

No fear. Ever again.  
Never to be at anyone's mercy.  
No one with the power to hurt you, to manipulate you.  
To stop you.  
No one.

Except him.

You must be out of your bloody mind.

If he was someone else… but he is who is and people can change but not him, not him and you don't know why you ask but you can't help yourself ―

"And after?"

There's the flicker of… something in his eyes and the sudden flash of pointed teeth. He pushes himself off of his leaning position and finally crosses the threshold, steps into the room with sure paces. Unhurried, confident.

He closes in on you and settles his body against yours. Head to toe, hip to groin. Wraps his arms around your shoulders and touches his forehead to yours. The smile is still there, slow and lazy now.

And you understand.

You're the prize.

Or maybe he is.

You never had anything. And he's offering ― everything.

You're not sure you'll be able to turn it down.

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see," he says.

 

* * *

 

"Know thine enemy as thyself." - Sun Tzu, The Art of War.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to: Sept, for unwittingly spawning this plotless bunny and then spending dozens of hours guiding me through meta, canon, extrapolations, execution and characterization – this fic wouldn't be possible without her. Xana, for terrific editing and incredible patience with my mad beta schemes which required her to remain unspoiled for months. Romany, for her constant support. And Reg, for graciously agreeing to jump ships and go over the final version, providing much insightful perspective. Ladies, you all rock.


End file.
